10 Minute Apocalypse
by Kampilan
Summary: Tired of clock punching in the morning and sleepless nights, tired of following a sadistically organized invisible rule book called life, that dictates what should and what shouldn't be or HOW TO LIVE, Shizuru Fujino buys a book that tells her HOW TO DIE.
1. Chapter 1

Yes, we go plot centric today and this is a different story. I changed the name of my previous story into something more befitting. This is based on a play that I'm writing. Twitched it a bit to fit zeh Shiznat it. Wallah

"ABSENCE DOES NOT MAKE THE HEART GROW FONDER." Thus the high divorce rates. But I, the classical romanticist, the gay young lover sent from planet Bozania, an old bean in a young goat's body, rise to challenge that acquisition.

HOW SHOULD THIS BE READ? Well, pick any universe except Mai Otome and imagine a middle class Shizuru and Natsuki living in a completely imperfect society just like you and me, adhering to the norms and laws of their nation or society, beat, tired, slowly crumbling into corporate slavery, dreaming and yearning (just like you and me) for/of a new and better life. For when was dreaming ever wrong, dear reader? There is no sin in dreaming.

You'll have to excuse my usual slips and shortcomings. After all I'm not a master grammarian. I'm just a coffee-addict struggling against perpetual boredom, punching clocks in the morning and romancing the moon during the daily death of the sun. Enjoy.

Dedikasyon: For Gail, ever radiant, ever sweet and astounding. I owe you fifty bucks harhar. For Elaine, who keeps slapping me back into reality whenever I dose off from rabid boredom. Fuck you, thanks. For Nanding, who always doused my temper with taro flavored pearl shakes, and to Amanda Carter, who may very well be, the most original and the brightest moralist of this ragged, hedonistic contemporary era. Cheers to you lassies.

WARNINGS: OOC-ness may ensue. I'm not schizoid. Character death (oooh!! Because dying is a part of living. Get fucking over it).

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**10 MINUTE APOCALYPSE**

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**Act I: THE BOX OF CURIOUSITIES**

**-  
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_Wednesday, July 15. _

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**"FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE"**, was written in blood-red ink all over the small, yellow box in Shizuru's hands. She clasped it tightly as she hummed ballads to quicken the passing of the night. But the clouds would not give way to neither sun nor moonlight, and the fury of the bells from the distant church counted every passing millisecond with a thunderous toll. She had spent the dead hours of her wasted evening checking and rechecking the contents of the curious yellow package.

A most curious package indeed! For there; tucked neatly beneath batik after batik, were the curiosities of all curiosities, each wrapped in thin, ancient, golden silk, and smelling of old spice and wintergreen. For the umpteenth time she tenderly poked the curiosities inside the box and –

"Ah!", she exclaimed as she instinctively drew her bleeding finger away.

Her enthusiasm faded and Shizuru slipped the box in her hand bag.

-

"Everything I touch

with tenderness, alas,

pricks like a bramble.", She recited in a hushed voice.

-

She peeked at her wristwatch, cursed the time under her breath, and sang, a little sadly, about dead poets and dead stars. She could not remember where she learned that song from and she only memorized a few lines, so she hummed the forgotten lyrics away.

She was silenced by the familiar raging of a familiar engine from the gaping darkness in front of her. Two rectangular lights outdid the dying lampposts with a hiss and before she could even resume her singing, Natsuki was on the other side of the street; gesturing for her to come over.

She complied.

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* * *

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Asked about the inconsistencies and peculiarities that occurred during the course of the day, Natsuki merely shrugged weakly in response and sat on her bike; unmoving, unblinking and almost not breathing despite the chilliness of the evening. The monsoon rain's visit lasted for almost five hours and the school grounds were still wet with the heavens' tears.

Shizuru, in contrast, sank into her pea coat's collar as she shivered and huffed breaths of cold air. A thin layer of fog danced around their feet to the tune of the frogs' croaks and to the fandango of the swaying, swooning leaves. The whole earth was drunk with rainwater and Shizuru was annoyed. Terribly annoyed at how Natsuki was acting. My god, it was as if the woman was drunk herself! Or suffering from a terrible hangover. She had not spoken a word for forty minutes. Was she mad? Did something bad happen? Did someone die? Did she lose something? Break something?

"Or kill someone? Shoot someone? Did you witness a gruesome crime? A rape scene? A murder? A theft?!", Shizuru finally said aloud. But Natsuki, cold as she was, closed her eyes, winced, and shook her head in response.

"NO? Natsuki, how can one syllable hurt your mouth? Just say no, please. Don't nod, don't shake your head, stop shrugging. Say something, for goodness sake!"

"I'm…"

"Yes?"

"Nothing…", and to Shizuru's great disappointment, Natsuki shook her head again.

What was she to do? Kiss her? Embrace her? Make love to her? Sing to her hymns of beauty? Or read poems of love undying and love lost – lost to silence and lost to deaf ears? What was she to do? Weep? Beg? Fall on her knees and plead? Why, what a merciless little wretch! What an ungrateful, insensitive temptation she was!

"Natsuki!", Shizuru almost screamed in exasperation as she grabbed her lover by her leather jacket's collar. "What is it? What's the matter? Why won't you talk to me?"

Natsuki spun around, shrugged her hands off and with a rough voice replied: "You ask too many questions."

Shizuru fell silent.

What a merciless little wench indeed.

-

Yet how enchanting, she thought. How inevitably invigorating her presence was! How extraordinary, how curiously fascinating, how devious she was. She seemed to grow more beautiful in her hastiness.

She comforted herself with memories of younger, brighter days; of kissing underneath star strewn heavens, and eating snow cones during summer dates. She remembered every single word of endearment that Natsuki told her. She recalled those dear moments of dire need of a source of strength when everything around her crumbled but oh! Oh no – not Natsuki. She and Natsuki would run towards the ends of the earth, swim through acid oceans that could melt flesh in a heartbeat, waltz through battlefields of clashing cannon ball and musket fire. Oh! How it all ached her and soothed her at the same time.

As they rode home, with neither word nor sun to brighten their paths, Shizuru clung on to Natsuki's back, wondering, wishing that somehow, somehow she would be able to decipher the puzzle in Natsuki's eyes and in Natsuki's silence. She snuggled closer. Natsuki did not move. Why? What made her so distant? So far fetched? Aha! It was time! That cruel, old phantom again! Giver and destroyer of dreams, stealing hearts and lovers.

Aha! It was time again! Cruel time and his wicked, wicked ways. Time and his ways of parting, distancing constellations, souls, universes, heart strings. Something bad happened at work. This, Shizuru knew. But, time. Time, you rascal, you mad, deceitful demon –Time! _'Time, what have you done?'_, She wondered. What occurred during those long hours of loveless toil, that Natsuki should refrain from speaking to her, that the lover should avoid the muse? Aha! Time, once again, you had filled the quiet heart with anger and sewn shut the lips and barricaded the ears with fury.

-

They stopped in the middle of a park where the raindrops reflected the neon lights of the city like a swarm of fireflies. Shizuru, dazed and weary, got off the bike with a timid hop. Natsuki took off her helmet and without getting off of her bike, she turned around to face Shizuru.

"I forgot to bring your helmet. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. It's not like I flew off the bike."

"But you can never be too sure with anything. There's always this chance."

"Shizuru?"

"Yes?"

"I had a rough day. I'm sorry…I just…", Natsuki's face contorted into a miserable frown. Shizuru took her into her arms and reassured her with a kiss and a soft: "I know".

"I'm sorry, love." Natsuki said with an apologetic smile. "Now get on the bike. It's going about to rain again. We better catch up with the wind."

-

* * *

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**_"I do not know anymore. I am tired of knowing. I am tired. I long for the simplicities that make living a joy: Moonlit nights spent in solitude and quiet red sunrises in Kyoto, or in Kansai, or even just watching the sunset from this apartment's rooftop with Natsuki._**

**_Ah…I suppose I shouldn't worry too much about Natsuki. It is only making matters worse for both of us. To put it more accurately: Our anxieties are driving us both into insanity. The excitement of receiving a note from her is unbearable, and so is the disappointment of facing my empty mail box. I know she feels the same. I regret to say that things have become undeniably difficult for both of us. She is often away and whenever she comes home it is my turn to leave. It's ironic. When we were far from each other, in peril and in draught, we were inseparable. But now that we are together, a gap grew between us. I think our quarreling schedules are to be blamed for this silent chaos. Why silent? Because we have become quite reluctant to speak with one another regarding the personal matters that shroud our personal, separate lives. For one, she does not know that I just lost another promotion job thanks to my reproductive organ._**

**_Silly me…The tea is getting colder with every word that I write. Natsuki is watching television as always. I hope I do not seem cold to you. Please do not misinterpret! I love Natsuki, I truly do! But I've become so used to these daily routines. I'm not living in a mess – Oh no! In fact I live in a most organized fashion – SO ORGANIZED that is has become quite tedious. Everything, save for Natsuki, has become a complete bore. And I intend to save that last remaining lit candle in my life. Oh no! I won't let anyone or anything blow it away. I'm going to make it shine even brighter – just as it was before anarchic winds blew us apart—"_**

-

Shizuru crumpled the letter without hesitation.

It was a night rich in rain and silver sparkle. The room was lit by a singular lamp. Natsuki was watching T.V in the darkness. Shizuru sat quietly at her study table. She pushed her lecture notes aside and reached for her hand bag. She took out the box of curiosities as she placed her journal and her work material inside the cabinet. She then carefully took out the contents and placed them neatly on the wooden table in front of her. She set the empty carton aside and proceeded to unwrap the curiosities. There was an eagle's feather, a bundle of brightly colored but smaller feathers, two bronze amulets, a dream catcher-like necklace, a geometrically designed cloth (It was as big as a handkerchief), a gold-filled crocodile tooth, a bird's preserved beak, a bottle which contained coagulated bits of blood, a pygmy statue, small sticks of spices and incenses, an old book, and an ivory knife. She placed the silk wrappings in the empty yellow carton and examined the contents.

"What are those?", Natsuki asked cheerfully.

Shizuru was a bit surprised. Natsuki picked up the crocodile tooth and scrutinized it with inquisitive eyes.

"I bought them from an antique shop near school. It was a very strange place, Natsuki. You should've seen all the shrunken heads that decorated the shop's interior."

"Shrunken heads? _**These**_ things amuse you?", Natsuki laughed.

"I am interested in them. They are fragments of different cultures and I love learning about other cultures."

"Stop lecturing me.", Natsuki teased as she kissed Shizuru's cheek.

"I'm not lecturing you," Shizuru replied as she kissed Natsuki back. "I'm just answering your question."

"So you do find some sort of sick amusement from such things?"

"They interest me. To be amused and to be interested are two completely different things."

"This is…", Natsuki said as she inspected the other foreign objects. "Indi-"

"South East Asian."

"Yes, I was about to say that."

"You were going to say 'Indian'."

"Hey, India – South East Asia. It fits, right?"

"You were going to say 'American Indian'.", Shizuru responded as she shook her head.

"Oh for pete's sake! How can you be su-"

"T'nalak.", Shizuru read the small note attached to the colorful piece of cloth. "The embodiment of the dreams of the T'bolis of Cotabato, Philippines."

Natsuki chuckled as she sat on the bed. Shizuru took the small book and followed her lover. Natsuki moved to the left side of the bed; the flows of the white linen followed her as she lied down. Shizuru carefully flipped the tattered, brown pages open. She took in the smell of antiquity with each page. The book also caught Natsuki's interest. She rolled on her side to face Shizuru and cocked her head to look at the book's cover.

The aged pages of the enigmatic material were hard bound in what seemed to be dark-green leather. Most of the letters were faded but Natsuki was able to fill in some of the missing letters (at least she was able to understand the Japanese translations). It read:

**-**

'**MU_ _ _ G PAGSIlANG NG YUM_O'**

**Rebirth _ r o_ t_ e D _ed**

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_**Written by: The daughters of the moon.**_

_**Translated, Compiled, and Edited by Emiliana Ka _ p i _ _n.**_

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-

Shizuru adjusted in her seat and raised her arms to give way for Natsuki's weary head. Natsuki was delighted, and at once she rested her head on Shizuru's lap.

"It's self published!", Natsuki said in awe. She peeked at the first page, hungry for more details. But there was no publishing house. There was merely a date and a few places that (she supposed) the author might have visited. The first page contained the following information:

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_**Note**__: most of the information from pages 56, 78, 99, 101 – 112, 134, and 136 – 142 were taken from the journals of the great adventurer Arcanio Burlanhagi and the ethnographic studies of Drobandante K., who travelled throughout the archipelago to record the ancient practices and rituals of the sages of the old, and who, himself, was a practitioner of the arts of the Katalonans._

_**Emiliana K. 1877, July**__. _

_Madagascar, Siquijor, Hamtik, Maynilad, Sulawesi, South Cotabato, Meghalaya, Karnataka, Limasawa, Phitsanulok, Kanchanaburi, Osaka. _

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It was a rare find indeed. A priceless antique! 1877 and still quite well preserved. The few details made her brain itch and the supposedly useful information only led to more confusion. Which was which? Where was where? _'An old, tickling puzzle, you are.',_ she thought.

"Listen to this," Shizuru began as she wiped the fallen dark locks of hair off of Natsuki's face, "If one seeks a new and better life, then one must go through the first stage of existence. He must lose himself within the forest of fire – the first plane of existence. He must walk naked before the eyes of the creator, through the plains of burning rhinestones where his flesh will be peeled off like fruit's skin. But fret not, for the river of life awaits him, there Pasig, the water serpent, shall embrace and soothe his scorched skin with the coolness of the night."

"A sort of trial by fire?", Natsuki asked nonchalantly.

"Nothing is given for free.", Shizuru continued meekly.

"That's for damn sure."

"Let me finish, Natsuki.", Shizuru replied in a neutral tone. Natsuki stuck her tongue out in mock annoyance and Shizuru pinched her pale cheek in reply.

"Nothing is given for free. If you wish to live anew, then you must give up your present state of existence and return to the state before all states: the state of perfection."

"I'm confused."

"So am I."

"But a new life!", Natsuki exclaimed. The breeze outside penetrated their room by the small slits on the half closed glass window.

"And not just a new life – but _**the**_ life we want! It sounds promising."

Shizuru looked at Natsuki and laughed. She did not know what provoked such an amiable reply from her stoic partner, but she was glad to hear such a statement from Natsuki.

"But how exactly do you attain this new life?"

"There's this ritual."

"Please continue reading, Shizuru."

"If by any chance, you wish to break away from the monotony of you present life, take the mandaragit's beak, hang it beside your open window pane. This will allow the guardian of the lost to enter your house and watch over your mortal coil as you walk about as a kaluluwa (soul). Burn some of the incenses to alleviate your ginhawa (natural healing force, pertains to both spiritual and physical ability of the body to self heal) so that when you awaken from your sleep, the wounds of the past life will be healed completely."

"Next step. And please stop reading all those footnotes."

Shizuru chuckled and pinched Natsuki's already reddened cheek.

"Take the eagle's feather and place it by your side. If you wish to bring someone along, encircle him with the colored feathers and burn a spice three inches below his feet. This will make the separation of the soul from the body faster. Wipe the pig guts and blood on the bulol (the pygmy statue) to call upon the spirits of life. When all of this is done, take the ivory knife, think of the life that you wish to live, give thanks to the spirits of nature, give thanks to the almighty creator, state the prayer written below the page, and end your (and your partner's) current unwanted state of living."

Shizuru closed the book and placed it on the small table beside their bed.

"One big joke," Natsuki laughed, "One big retarded joke."

"The owner of the shop told me that it actually works."

Natsuki laughed harder.

"A better, happier life."

"Yes."

"In exchange for your old life.", Natsuki said as her laughter slowly died.

"Yes.", Shizuru replied calmly.

-

The rain had stopped and the world had fallen into a cutting, eerie silence with the heaviness of the last instruction. They looked at each other – the red at the green, the green at the red, the stars at the moon, the moon at the stars, the rain at the clouds that spewed it ungracefully, the heavy clouds at the puddles of rainfall it disgorged, and in that somber silence there grew a sudden understanding, a compliance.

Wants were revived; old desires were lit anew into a stronger, brighter flare. Outside the trees twinkled with longing for new life and old love! And stars grew dull as the clouds gave way to the rising of the summer crescent. The room became river cool, the night became morning bright, the hyacinths quivered with rain and moonshine, and aloft the wind was whispering ancient psalms from distant, ancient lands whose names were unknown to maps, and it hushed the fog with love poems from the dead.

Natsuki and Shizuru had built between them a conjugal unseen sanctuary, brick by brick, memory by memory of the mind, wondering, pondering on the kisses unshared, the serenades unsung, and what else could've occurred or happened that rainy Monday, or that sunny Tuesday when they weren't home because of the demands of money, because time was too short and work was too much, too many. And they shifted in their beds, lied down with eyes wide open and thought and wished and hoped and dreamed and wanted and lived within their heads.

"But it's a fair deal, right?", Natsuki said at last. Shizuru turned her head and stared at Natsuki, or rather, stared at the question.

"Trade an old life for a better life. Fair trade, if you ask me."

Shizuru looked up at the ceiling and acted as if she could not hear Natsuki.

"What I would give, Shizuru…what I would give to just have…", she stopped and looked at Shizuru whose eyes were ephemeral works of sheer wonder.

She smiled, closed her eyes and continued: "To be free with you. To be free to love you."

Shizuru giggled but refrained from looking at Natsuki. Feeling encouraged by this saccharine gesture, Natsuki went on glumly: "Less work and more time for love, more time for you. So yeah, all things considered, to attain that want I practically have to pattern a new way of life since right now, most of my time is spent earning."

Natsuki exhaled audibly. "I'm not discontented with you, Shizuru. I just want more. Maybe I am. God, I don't really know."

Shizuru laughed wryly at Natsuki's vagueness.

"I'm a slave. A slave to money. A slave to this organized chaos! Wake up at 7 am, go to work, eat. Even the crap that I eat in the cafeteria is limited by some unseen rule book. I can't eat fish every Wednesday even though I crave it. I can't eat ramen at Mcdonalds. I – I can't hug you at the train station because people will find it weird! I can't call you sweetheart at the mall like those horny pimple adorned kids do!"

"How very poetic of you, Natsuki."

"I'm serious! Darling, I'm serious! Everywhere I go, there are things that I have to do and things that I can't do. Everything that I want to do is limited. The stuff that I hate doing lasts longer. God-fucking-damn work. Yes, yes, I guess to lose those chains is to give up this mechanized life. I don't want to be an organic super computer anymore! I want to be happy – I want to spend more time with you. That's all that I want. Is that too much to ask?"

She took Shizuru's left hand and held it tight.

"Is that too much to ask, Shizuru? From God, from this fucked up society?"

Shizuru did not answer her. She sighed and kissed Shizuru's hand.

"A new life. Heh!", she sardonically said as she rolled on her side to face the darkness of the left side of the room.

-

"Why were you angry four hours ago?", Shizuru asked.

Natsuki grunted and covered her eyes with her right arm.

"I really don't want to talk about it right now, darling. Things went pretty bad. Someone blew the ledgers and I have to clean up. Please, Shizuru, I'm not really in the mood right now. Like I said three seconds ago: I want a new life. I'd die for a new life with you!"

-

Shizuru held her tongue. She was not angry at Natsuki. In truth, she completely understood her lover's dilemma. There were times when talking only made things worse. She thought about Natsuki's question. Was she asking too much? Shizuru did not have an answer to that.

She looked at the open window pane. The clouds seemed to be galleons sailing across dark water. Everything moved in a prescribed slow motion. How many days has she spent balancing other people's checkbooks? How many sleepless nights has she spent finding fluxes in other people's relationships to legalize a divorce, when she could not even marry Natsuki? And she wondered how long she would have to keep doing these time-consuming, mind-consuming, life-consuming tasks. She was beat, my god, she was tired of clock-punching in the morning and dreaming of court battles at night. Yes! Yes, even her dreams of Natsuki had been replaced by dreams about work - about this life. '_**This LIFE!**_', her mind screamed.

"Shizuru?" Natsuki softly called out. Shizuru was shaken out of her thoughts.

"Shizuru, you wouldn't really kill me, would you?"

Shizuru laughed. What a silly, silly question. "Of course not."

Natsuki sighed contentedly.

-

What. A. **_Silly. Silly. Silly. Silly_**. Question.

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-

How still the night was! How still the earth was! How unmoved, how mercilessly slow time was! By the by the lights died, the city slept in entombing silence, the trees rested underneath the shade of the moon and the clouds, and everyone returned to their own personal sanctuaries to bask in the solitude of their private rooms and private selves, to love domesticated, to sleep a prescribed sleep (eight hours is healthy and enough to keep you awake at the office) - Unseen, unheard by the world. Stranded, stuck in their personal, self made purgatories to rise to the call of alarm clocks, and engines roaring, and to the scent of the earth burning. Ah! they were all machine parts - nothing more, nothing less. Disposable. Pity much.

And while the earth awaited the coming of a new day, while the world prepared itself to rise to another yesterday, the wind chimes rung against the hawk's beak that hang by a nylon string on the open window pane, the room was bathed with the smell of chamomile and ginger, and Shizuru watched wistfully the shadows of the night that danced on her beloved's virgin snow cheeks and smiled at her dreams of new life and old love. And bending down slowly, she planted a chaste kiss on Natsuki's lips, and lovingly sank the ivory blade into Natsuki's exposed neck. For a moment, Natsuki's eyes fluttered open. Never before had life brimmed withing her eyes in such Viridian splendor. Shizuru saw the shock, the confusion, the dreams fading, the fear – all those emotions ran bewildered, lost within the virgin forests that were Natsuki's eyes. Shizuru dragged the blade sideways across the tender flesh. She heard and felt the breath pouring out along with the blood and the veins. She hushed Natsuki to death with another kiss and watched the flicker of life within her eyes grow stiller and stiller.

Wiping the fallen auburn locks off of her face, she recited the short prayer that the book mentioned (in truth she was quick to memorize the instructions the moment she read the book), closed her eyes and opened her own neck with the ivory knife.

The blood was quicker than time. With one eye closed and the other open, she gazed at the wall clock and mocked time with a gurgled chortle. She heaved heavily and painfully and weakly took hold of Natsuki's pale right hand. The death was coming quickly. She could feel it. Would the life come quickly as well? She hoped so. The old woman at shop told her it would. The –

She coughed out a part of herself. She swallowed the pain for dreams, for love, for new life, for Natsuki! Yes, yes. And that one open eye glimmered in delight. She could see Elysium behind the stars and the moons. She could hear the golden fountains pouring out! But perhaps that was just the sound of their gushing blood – gushing, gushing out of their necks and mouths. She coughed some more. She tried to envision what her new life would be like. She had asked for more time – more time for – Oh! But it was coming – the death! The new life! And she could no longer think nor see, nor breath, nor love and there upon that eye, that eye that forever gazed at **_11:50_**, _death_ and the _dreamer_ had become one.

The city had become a silhouette in the eyes of a watching god. The spices consumed the scent of blood, and the darkness slowly devoured the moon, the clouds, the bed, the life, them – the eye.

-

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Endnotes:

_The Haiku that Shizuru recited in the first part came from Kobayashi Yataro._

_Batik are south east Asian patterns._

_The ritual is purely fictitious, but the references: such as the eagle and the hawk as guides towards the land of the dead, and that humanity is composed of three identities: the kaluluwa (the soul, which in the final plane of existene will become the anito), the ginhawa (the healing properties of the human body and the human soul), and the katawan, are NOT Fictitious. These are elements of Filipino animism. Although of course, the whole suicide for life ritual is FICTITIOUS. Damn, I AM redundant. XD_

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_**BTW: I am not a review whore, but seriously, drop me a review so that I'll continue this story because by reviewing, you signal for me to continue writing. 0 reviews is automatically equated to 0 readers so, yes. Please review. I'm afraid adding it to your alert list/fav list isn't enough. **  
_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Pardon the late update. A lot has happened. Manila, during the 28th of September became a scene from the Poseidon Adventure. Of course, living in the ancient grounds of Namayan, we suffered heavy damages. Nevertheless, I am fortunate enough to be spared from the gushing torrents of muddy flood water. I have a warm cup of coffee beside me to cheer me up, work to finish, and people who have been most tender, most supportive, and in those moments when the fire in my eyes was nearly extinguished by the angry, bloody rains, I came face to face with beauty PURE AND SUBLIME.

WARNING: We go into some details on this one just to clarify a few things and to mix more spices into this mysterious concoction. For people who HATE unanswerable mysteries, you are advised to click the "BACK" button on your browser since this is meant to be your Tropical Gothic A.K.A Twilight Zone-ish fic. *plays twilight zone theme*

P.S: You are advised to take note of the times mentioned and the dates and days.

* * *

**10 MINUTE APOCALYPSE**

* * *

**Act II: THE ATROCITY EXHIBITION**

-

_Thursday, July 15_

It was already past seven in the morning and the rush hour traffic had already begun. The streets were full to bursting with lines and lines of cars, musical with honks and screeching of wheels; the drivers excerpts from a Wagnerian Opera, the traffic polices' voices glass shattering.

It was just another busy day- nothing more, nothing less. The buildings seemed to crawl in the heat of the sun with the air warmer than devil's breath, and the roads busier and noisier than buzzing bees. Lost among the billboards of diet cola, cellulite free models, laptops, and Chevrolets, was an old two storey house – an antique shop; merely a shadow of the past, meekly standing amidst concrete castles, selling forgotten things of the forgotten years.

-

The old woman slowly climbed down the creaking, old stairs of her antique shop with shaky steps and brittle old legs. A thin, young man unrolled the window blinds from inside the shop and immediately the sun rays filled the antique shop with hot shimmer and golden dust. The house was made of fine, dark wood. Time had left its mark on every wall and post, it left no rock unscratched, no wooden plank unscarred, no brick unloose, and no patch of soil unbroken by pale grass.

She glanced up at the sky glumly. It was going to rain, she said to herself. Surely, it was going to rain, though there was no threat of it yet in the sky. The sun smiled upon the earth arrogantly that morning and no ominous dark cloud was in sight. But nay, she said as she shook her head, it was going to rain in the late afternoon. The sky, she continued with a suppressed cackle, the sky liked to play tricks on gullible human eyes.

She stopped in front of an old tree that towered over the other Japanese trees in that district. Its body was twisted in an almost horrifying shape. It strangled itself with its countless unmoving coils and its gigantic roots writhed motionlessly across the ancient ground like decapitated gorgon heads. The tree was older than her, older than the shop, older than the things that she sold. She kneeled before the primeval being, the bowl of coconut meat and milk offered upon her trembling palms. The air was thick with warmth and the scent of burning earth, the grass hot with the sun's kisses, and the skies bluer than the bottomless blue. Yes, she assured herself as she bowed lowly before the tree, it would rain.

-

Done with her morning ritual, the old woman entered her shop and changed the 'closed' sign that hung by the door into 'Now Open'. She told her son to gather the clothes from the clothes line and prepare for the rain.

"But grandmother", the young man said politely as he opened the rusty cash register, "the weather reports said it's going to be a bright, sunny day."

"The weather reports are wrong. It will rain. The winds say so", she insisted. "Youths. They've become so dethatched to nature. They've distanced themselves from you, Nang' Alunsinag."

Her grandson shrugged his shoulders and climbed up the stairs to collect their dried clothes, but the old woman continued with her narrative as if she was actually speaking with another person. "Your children, Nang' Alunsinag, they no longer look back to thank you for what you've given to them. They fashion themselves as gods – moving you, attempting to control you. No." She shook her head and grimaced, "No. Not until they rejoin you, Alunsinag, they can never be more than humans. They will continue to be lowlier than animals – the animals that they scorn, that they devour, the animals that they look down upon so much. I'd rather call myself a daughter of yours, an animal, if to be human is to destroy and be arrogant and act like a god. They can no longer hear the wind. They cannot hear your heartbeat through the cement that they covered you with."

The young man climbed down the stairs with the dried clothes. She studied his lanky figure until the shadows of the unlighted room consumed him. She noticed that her grandson forgot to unroll the blinds of one of the windows. She sighed and unhurriedly walked towards the corner where the shadows fell upon the walls, where the shadows fell upon the war masks dancing. She slowly lifted the binds with her veined hands and noticed a familiar figure.

-

-

"It's that woman again, grandmother." Her grandson said from behind the room. Yes, it was that young woman again. She recognized the tall, slender figure, the soft look that her eyes held and the lunar eclipses that lived within them. She knew that petite nose, the neat bangs that framed her face like late afternoon sunrays falling over fine, white sands.

"It's that book again. It's that book that she's curious about, grandmother."

"Didn't I tell you to put it back inside its box?"

"Why, yes, grandmother. You did. But it's good for our business. See, we have another possible customer. Like a good advertisement, you know?"

.

-

The old woman laughed toothlessly and patted her smirking grandson. She then moved away from the window, went upstairs, and took out the book's box from the dusty old cabinet in her bedroom. The box was older than the tree in her courtyard, it was older than her, it was older than the house and everything else in her shop. 'This one', she said to herself as she blew the ancient dust off of the ancient box, 'this one is special'.

She recalled that stormy night: aboard some nameless, suicidal ship, she and her father struggled against rain and wave, wind and guard's eyes. They were stowaways escaping from their brutish colonial government. They slept and ate in the dark parts of the ships. They had been sailing for ten days with only the rats and their antiques to keep them company. But on the tenth night a stranger crept into their room. She heard the sailors talk about some ghost. The ghost, the superstitious young men said, had left its bleeding footprints on the deck.

The ghost sat in front of them, reading a book and constantly jotting notes down in another. She said she had escaped from a pirate raid in Malacca, and that the Dutch authorities had tried to confiscate her books in Muar. They told her they were off to Japan. They wanted to start a new life there. She laughed at them. What life, she asked, awaits a stranger in a land far from his home?

Her father was wary of the 'vagabond'. She was strange, very strange. She was awfully thin and her skin, like theirs, was brown tinged with the gold of the oriental sun, but there was something in the way that the stranger talked, moved, and gazed out into the darkness that frightened them. Her eyes the darkest shade of obsidian, floating coldly over ivory. Her eyes, she recalled, were lifeless like a doll's and they bore no joy when she laughed, nor sorrow when she frowned. But those dead eyes seemed to always watch everything closely - fiercely. She wore the clothes of the rich, white men on board – a tattered, black tailcoat which was a bit too big for her.

When they had reached Japan, they immediately parted ways – they to sell their merchandise in the capital, the young stranger to pursue her 'scholarly work'. Her father chose the spot beside the Balete tree because they thought it was a good omen, a sort of welcoming gift from Alunsinag. They learned the Japanese tongue quickly and as the years went by they broke through their shy, withdrawn shells and lived as Japanese citizens, conversing in Japanese, drinking sake – not tuba. But when they returned to the safety of their antique shop and home, they would speak in their native tongue and sleep on their banigs and in their saris and patadyongs. On the 10th anniversary of their arrival in Japan, a most unexpected visitor came.

It was the stranger.

She had bought along with her a few old swords, old books, a large portrait and a peculiar yellow box. She told them that she finished her first five books – that she finished her grandfather's dream and that he can now rest peacefully as his will is done. She told them that she was about to return to their country. Her father warned the stranger of the perils of Moro raids, of Yankee ships firing on Manila bay. He told her that the horrid smell of rotting flesh and hellish red of cannon flare would welcome her – not the scent of Sampaguitas and the victorious scarlet of the Maynilad flag. But she said it was her destiny to die in her native soil. She gave them the things that the brought as a sign of gratitude.

She personally handed the box over to her father and told him to 'hold on it to it' for her, and instructed in a grave tone that what was inside the box was sacred - that the book was sacred, that the teachings in the book were true, that she was most fortunate to have witnessed their wonders and that the book was unlike all the other antiques, that it was old, older than time, perhaps, older than words, older than fire, that it was product of the whispering waters and the dancing winds, that the words written in it were passed on from divine tongue to mortal ears. She proudly said that her anitos came to her in a dream and instructed her to translate the book in all the languages that she knew, and yes, she did so with much success, she said.

She told them humorlessly that it was not to be sold for a high price – a mortal price that is, for it asked for something else, more than blood, flesh, or love, that her highborn kinsmen said so and that it was by the will of the anitos, that she had found the last missing piece to the puzzle – the 5th Amitera of the Eastern seas, she said, escaped to Osaka and she chased the sage there and learned from her, and her words were written in the book and that rituals were now complete, that they were not be questioned.

They could not understand her and were prompted to interrogate her, but she said her ship would leave soon and that was all they needed to know. They need not listen to her; they need only to read the book. They asked her if they would see her again, if she would come back to claim what was hers, or drop by for a visit during the vacation months. She smiled and said: "Perhaps."

-

And here she was: no longer the curious, naïve little child standing on the newly painted porch of the shop, waving at the nameless stranger with doll eyes and native brown skin and hair darker than burnt wood, but an old woman who has seen the world with tired, old eyes, waving at another nameless stranger who stood by the dusty porch of the shop with lunar eclipses for eyes and hair foreign: brown, and skin foreign: white, as she slowly climbed down the creaking, old stairs of the shop she came to know as her home for sixty five years.

"Come from a land far-away, can you tell, child?", she asked.

Shizuru bowed politely, and replied with a smile: "Yes, madam." She then looked around and took note of the war masks that hung on the walls, the shrunken heads that stared at her from the ceiling, the brutish spears, the collection of South East Asian weaponry to the far left, the wooden, bronze, and golden statues that surrounded her like welcoming gods. She took in the scent of unfamiliar spices and incenses. She had been returning to the shop ever since they placed a certain book on display alongside an interesting advertisement, but this was the first time that she actually entered the shop. She would only look at the book (and read portions of it) from the display window.

"Good morning! My, this truly is a pleasant surprise!", the young man said as he shook her hand. Quite an awkward introduction, she thought, and noticing this, the young man covered his face with his hand and said with a wry smile: "Sorry, miss. It's just that we rarely have customers who actually, well, come in personally, especially during this hour of the day. Orders usually come in through the phone and I just deliver it to their doors during the evening."

"I see.", Shizuru replied with a timid laugh.

"Feel free to look around, just, um, please be careful because everything here is flimsy – even the house itself."

"_Alukin mo iyang dalaga ng tsa-a_," the old woman called out to the young man in her native tongue.

"Oh! How rude of me! Would you like some spiced tea, miss? It's on the house. Consider it a customary thing."

"That would be lovely."

-

The young man hurriedly walked away and Shizuru took that opportunity to inspect the shop's merchandize. The old woman began to play an ancient song on her unusual guitar. She approached the shrunken heads and stared blankly at the unblinking eyes that stared back at her. She wondered if in her death, she would be able to stare at herself just as she looked on at the nameless shrunken heads whose wide eyes were still filled with life. They seemed to need, to want to tell her their tales – their miserable lives.

"I really should remove them from that wall. It's freaky, I know. Sorry. It's _her_. She can't get over the fact that people don't head hunt anymore. Well, they do head-hunt but, not the 'loin clothed man rips another loin clothed man's head off with a hunter's knife' thing, but a more 'civilized' way of head hunting." The young man said from behind her as he handed her a cup of tea. Shizuru laughed at his anomalous tendency to elaborate.

"Civilized head-hunting", she laughed. "You don't have to. I find them to be quite interesting."

"Hah! I'm glad you do, miss. I used to have nightmares about them when I was six."

Shizuru laughed as she blew the white steam off of her cup. She walked towards the collection of swords and noticed that a muramasa was lost in the pile of South East Asian blades. She laughed at this oddity and reached out to touch the longest and largest blade that stood proudly like a golden warrior hailed by the other swords.

"May I?"

"Go right ahead. Careful though, that one's heavy".

She unsheathed the sword with two shaky hands. The blade glistened like a diamond before her eyes. She was marveled by the intricate designs that covered the handle; the shaft was shaped into a crocodile's angry mouth, the hilt an angry blood stone.

"That, miss, is the Kampilan. The god of all South East Asian swords. The indispensable, sacred blade of the rajahs and lakans of the old."

"It **is** a beauty.", Shizuru said as she placed the sword back in its proper place. She took hold of another, this time a one handed sword with a zigzagged blade.

"The kris. Not endemic to Thailand, spread out across the South East Asa," he said coyly, "That one was the kris of Pitong Gatang, one of the first datus who led a rebellion against Spanish invaders during the early part of the 13th century in the Philippines."

"You know all the histories of these blades?"

"Aha! Not just these blades, miss, but of almost everything in the shop. Almost. I mean, some of them are just sold to us by old soldiers."

"Amazing," Shizuru said with smile. She held another sword in her hand. Its blade was made of fine silver that glistened like moonlight on dark water; its hilt filled with precious gems and sacred inscriptions, its shaft golden and shaped into eagle's wings. "And this one?"

"That one, I am most proud of. It's a very special sword. That is the fais of Datu Matalim Daruwala Pulalon, the last and greatest warrior of the Pulalon clan of ancient Mandaluyong. Look here-", he said as he pointed at the sword's hilt, "her name is written here: Ma-na-da-ra-nga-na. The war god. She was believed to be the daughter and the avatar of the war deity, Mandarangan, and was hailed as a sacred warrior during her time. The eagle was the Pulalons' family symbol, thus, these wings right here."

"It's untouched by time."

"Yes, well, you see…", his voice fell into a raspy whisper, "The hearts – or rather, chunks of the hearts, of the great Pulalon warriors who came before Matalim were stored inside the jewels that adorn this blade. And this blade was forged with the blood of fifty fallen warriors. So they say that this blade is alive, thus its name is _Mangingitil_, which means 'Life taker'. Legends even say that the blade took the souls of the warriors that it vanquished."

Shizuru stared at the blade with stunned eyes.

"Quite a gruesome tale behind a blade of such exquisite beauty." the young man said as he patted her shoulder.

"And what exactly killed this fearsome warrior?"

"Would you like to guess?"

"Hmmm…", Shizuru thought as she sheathed the sword and placed it on the silver pedestal it stood on, "suicide?"

"Nope. Sadly, no."

"She was felled during a skirmish."

"No."

"I give up."

"Tetanus."

"What a tragic end…", she remarked as she shook her head and the young man laughed beside her. She finished the spiced tea in four quick gulps and handed the empty cup over to the young man with a courteous nod.

She scrutinized the other objects in the room as she walked past them, and stopped in front of an old portrait that hung in the center of the left wall.

It was a portrait of a man (perhaps in his late 50's, she thought). He was able bodied although not obnoxiously muscular, fine looking although not to-die-for gorgeous: His flat nose was complimented by his well pronounced cheekbones, his lips just the right thickness, his brows were thick but his eyes were mellow – almost doll-like. He wore a strange head dress that was adorned by huge feathers and Ox and Stag horns, so it was impossible to tell what his hairstyle was. He smiled cockily with his chin up, and his arms akimbo. Strange writings were tattooed on his cheeks and arms in dark ink, but curiously and almost humorously, he wore a tail coat on his blue sarong which fell loose on formal, black pants. A young girl stood beside him in an equally proud stance. She had his eyes –doll's eyes. Dead but mystifying. She too was dressed in a Sunday dress which was flowing white and cream colored laces. But ironically, she too had curious inscriptions painted on her wrists and on her right cheek. They stood pompously forever on a maroon background; smiling arrogantly at the ages, at time passing.

"Pardon my intrusion," she called out to the old woman, "but whose portrait is this?"

The old woman smiled at her and replied casually that it was just an old portrait: "A traveler came here and left that. That was a very long time ago. I was still very young. "

-

She walked away from the portrait's scrutinizing pairs of eyes, towards the sun bathed windows.

"You come here for special purpose?", the old woman asked in a soft voice.

"I saw your advertisement from the window – the poster, madam, about this - -"

"Instant new life in 10 minutes!," the young man said. He had emerged from the shop's back door with a smug grin.

"Yes, that one. I've read portions of that book from the window pane and I'm very curious about it."

"Excuse me…" the young man said as he slipped pass the cash register and took the book from the window's display.

"Here we are! Gentle with those pages." he then handed the book over to their customer. Shizuru gently flipped through the pages and skimmed through the list of rituals and incantations.

"You won't find that book in ANY OTHER antique shop in the world.", the young man said, eager to sell the book.

"Does it really work?"

The young man laughed.

"Crazy superstition, but hey, interesting read although I'm not done with the entire thing. It'll look great on anyone's collection though."

-

"_**IT WORKS."**_ the old woman interrupted in a grim tone. Shizuru turned around the face the old woman.

"It works. Many have tried, many have succeeded. You must not question the words of Alunsinag, child. You must not have doubt, you must free yourself of other wants and concentrate on a single desire."

"Many have already tried? The ritual – this sacrificial ritual."

"Oh yes, child.", The old woman stood up and walked towards her with an eerie smile. "Yes, a number of souls have. They all came back to return the book, never to buy it again and never asking for their money.", and with soft fingers, the old woman gently lifted Shizuru's face and examined her neck; studying carefully the veins that crawled almost colorlessly on the pale flesh. Shizuru did not move. It was uncomfortable, but she thought it rude of her to elude what seemed to be a harmless yet bizarre action. She assumed that it came with ethnicity – that it was also customary to study possible buyers. She knew about palm reading, but this was indeed new to her. The old woman asked her to look at her in the eyes, and she complied with the strange request. The old woman lifted a finger in front of her, as if measuring some short distance. From her peripheral vision, she saw the young man sink into the nearby wooden chair in shame.

"Why did they return the book?"

"They deemed it necessary to share the gifts, the words of enlightenment of the book to more people. You want the book? Then you want a new life."

"I just think its interesting, madam. I'm fond of old reads."

"You do not want better life? You do not want the gifts of Nang' Alunsinag?"

"Madam, I do not mean to be rude, but who doesn't want a better life?"

"Precisely. Come here, come!",

Shizuru approached the old woman. The old woman took out an egg from underneath the desk. She placed in on the desk's flat surface and it rolled around until Shizuru instinctively reached out to prevent the egg from falling off the desk. Before she could even lay a finger on it, it stood on its tip like a magnet responding to a metal object.

"Amazing!" Shizuru exclaimed. She kept her hand at the level of her eye (and she stood up straight) but the egg refused to 'act like a normal egg'.

The old woman's cackled filled her ears. Shizuru smiled and walked towards the far right end of the table with her hand still raised. The egg followed her like an obedient slave.

"So, you want the book?"

"How much is it, madam?"

"Fifty yen only."

The young man stood up with a surprised look on his face. "Fifty yen?!", he asked aloud, surprised at the cheap price placed upon an exquisite antique.

"Fifty yen." the old woman repeated in a harsher tone as she glared at her grandson.

Shizuru was also taken back by the low price. Talk abut bargain prices, but, hey, never say no to blessings. She looked at the old woman with questioning eyes. Surely, this wasn't a scam? Surely, this book is a rare find indeed and that she was only kind enough to sell it to her for the unbelievably low price of fifty yen?

"The book chose you; it says yes, you may. Fifty yen." The old woman replied her silent question. She shrugged her shoulders a bit, giggled as the young man muttered incomprehensible grievances into the air, and took out the fifty yen from her purple coat's right pocket. The old woman took out the box of curiosities, placed the book inside it and handed it over to Shizuru. They sealed the deal with a polite bow and Shizuru left the shop with a rustle of her grey skirt and a relieved sigh. She silently rejoiced over her purchase. The young man escorted her outside the shop.

"Sorry if my grandmother gave you that weird hullabaloo. Really, it's all done in good intentions."

"It's alright. You're grandmother is of good character, and you are a very good salesman."

-

He flushed and bid her farewell. She walked away from the shop with the box of curiosities in her hand. She looked up at the sky and assured herself that the day would end in sunshine, that the night would be warm and filled with starlight. Surely, she thought, it would not rain. No, nothing would spoil my day. Natsuki will come home with a smile on her face. She would be tired and hungry, the poor dear. I'll come home an hour before her and cook a scrumptious meal for Natsuki. Surely, she whispered to the air as she rode a bus to the university, not a spatter of rain would escape the clouds, no drop of precipitation would defy the sunlight, and no shade of grey would dare threaten the clear blue above.

She took the book out of the box and read through the rush hour traffic. Besides, following the book's foreword:

"_**One must have no doubts. This is the underlying philosophy and trick to the magic and power of the mystic old. Belief**__** creates**__** effect. Faith can shape one's destiny and belief and enough hope can turn the tides of time just as wilting petals can create new, majestic trees."**_

-

_**

* * *

**_

-

-

_Friday, July 16_

_-_

The day began like yesterday: The sun bright in atonement for the unexpected rain shower that occurred during the night. The clouds looked on at the world innocently, as if they knew not how to create turmoil with rain and thunder.

Idly the stillness of the past night was broken by the crowing of roosters and the chirping of hungry pigeons. The veil of darkness that the night shrouded the apartment with was gently lifted by pliant golden sunrays to reveal bed sheets soaked in blood, wounds angry, open, bleeding still despite the hours that passed, Shizuru and Natsuki lying still, forever holding hands, forever in love, forever dreaming, forever staring out at the clock.

Natsuki looked at the atrocity exhibition with much disgust. She looked down at herself; forever lying at rest on the left side of the bed, forever gasping breathlessly for life and air. She recalled how it felt; the breath poured out of her neck like molten metal, the muscles forcibly were torn apart like silk. It was terribly-fucking painful, she thought, and Shizuru's kisses were not enough to make the pain go away. She inspected the wound on her mortal coil. It was a brutal cut done without finesse! She recalled how some of the nerves on her neck flew sky high before her very eyes. She wanted to reach out and catch them – she tried to reach out and catch them and place them back on her neck as if she were just repairing her motorbike.

She grimaced and fingered the wound on her own neck. It was no longer painful, only uncomfortable like a paper cut. The warm morning air passed through the open flesh and made the thin strips of muscles and nerves that hung dangerously on the pinkish gaping hole near her chin vibrate. She immediately covered it with her hands and ran towards the dark corner of the left side of the room where the air could not reach her.

She leaned on the tall China mirror and looked at her lifeless body from the reflection. She saw Shizuru on the right side of the room. Shizuru had crept underneath her study table. She buried her face in her folded arms. She cried profusely and turned away from the morning light; basking in the spidery, dark depths of her study table. She deserved this. She knew she deserved more.

Where did she go wrong? Why? She followed every step, every single step perfectly! She studied the book and did her research at the university during her lunch break for weeks and weeks. Was there something wrong in the prayer she recited? Or perhaps – No, no, no god, no! Perhaps the book was a fake; the old woman was a fraud! Oh, curses! How could she? Oh, she was so foolish? So moronic! How could she do that to Natsuki? Her Natsuki who was so gentle, who at times was cold but still gentle and loving? She groaned and wept and gnashed her teeth in shame and spat at herself. She kept muttering out 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry' amidst grunts and sobs.

Natsuki checked if her pipes were still working by reciting her alphabet. Assured that everything else was normal (save for the fact that they were now dead and she was walking around with a mortal wound on her neck), she turned around to face Shizuru. Cruel thoughts raced through her head. She wanted to slap, slap, SLAP! That silly face until her mouth bled, bled, bled! She wanted to strangle her, to tear open the wound on Shizuru's neck with her fingers.

-

"How could you do this, Shizuru? You ungrateful wreck! Everything was alright! Fuck, what came over you?!" she roared and punched the mirror. But her hand went through the solid surface like liquid and she suddenly felt nauseas. It was as if her hand was vaporized. For a moment the bones on her hand dissipated and the flesh incinerated when it passed through the mirror. She rested her head on the wall and wondered why she could not pass through the concrete. Why? Was is it too thick? But then she saw Shizuru's shoulders fall and rise in tune to her sobbing and a terrible rage came upon her. She stood up and shouted spiteful words at her lover – words she never knew she could actually say to Shizuru. But Shizuru just kept crying, weeping miserably, pathetically, uselessly apologizing as profusely as she sobbed.

They felt as if their hearts would explode, for a squall had risen up within their unbeating chests, whirling without axis nor orbit, whirling with its debris crashing within their walls, flooding their senses, stripping them off of their rationalities and while they howled and groaned – Shizuru in misery, Natsuki in rage, while this went on – the atrocity exhibition: the artists also its audience, the cast also its spectator, outside, the day went on like yesterday: The streets full to bursting with lines and lines of cars, musical with honks and screeching of wheels; the drivers excerpts from a Wagnerian Opera, the traffic polices' voices glass shattering.

It was just another busy day- nothing more, nothing less.

-

-

-

* * *

Reviews would be much love. I need the motivation, seriously. After the first floor of my house got wiped out, I need happy thingies.


	3. Chapter 3

N/A: For all the victims of the Ampatuan Massacre, especially the women who were more brutalized than the men (fuck this culture of misogyny) may you see the light of Kabunyan as you walk through the forest of fire. This is for them.

* * *

**ACT III: BOOKSHELF FANTASIE**

**_Tuesday, July 20. _**

**_-  
_**

She had decided against it at first, but after giving it much consideration, Natsuki chose to try again. Yes, although her chances of success were low and she had been trying for the one-hundred-and-fiftieth time; disintegrating, and vomiting herself back in place for the one-hundred-and-fiftieth time, she would attempt to break free from their self built prison once more.

She licked her lips and leaned back against the cold wall behind her. She inhaled a large puff of air, (although she really did not need to; she no longer needed to breathe. Her organs functioned perfectly with neither food nor breathe to nourish it. She simply was not acquainted with the aerobic state of living) squinted and ran full speed ahead, expecting to pass through the concrete wall, but instead came crashing into it; reduced for a millisecond into unperceivable bundles of sparks, and then slowly coagulating into a mass of fleshy, gooey giant spit. She screamed as her joints and muscles crawled back involuntarily into their proper places. She opened her eyes and she was whole again, but nausea held her by the back of the head and she vomited some sort of liquid light. The disgorged substance immediately vaporized into the air like mating fireflies as soon as Natsuki began to feel better again.

She shook her head and sat on the left corner of the room. She looked at the digital clock on the table. She then looked at Shizuru who was still bent over the shadows, crouched over her puddle of tears. Shizuru who kept muttering apologies and blatant self pities into the air. Natsuki was opted to throw an insult at her, but she was silenced by the familiar rustling of curtains in their living room.

She stopped and recollected how more than once she and Shizuru would hear that mysterious rustling. It often occurred during the dead hours of the night and she and Shizuru would silently tiptoe towards the living room with their licensed pistols and wooden swords, thinking it was a thief. It was no one. They dismissed it, and thought it a mouse or merely the sea breeze. But still it continued to mystify them. They made it a routine to bar the doors and lock the windows before they went to bed, and the rat poison that they left on the small crevice beside the purple sofa had been left untouched for two straight years already. What was it then? What was it?

'Now is the best time to find out', she told herself as she quietly walked towards the open door. She had nothing to fear, she had no mortal body to care for, no fragile life to guard. She peeked at the edge of the door and beheld a silhouette of a man. He was walking around their living room, constantly stopping in front of the tall bookshelf. He whistled as he continuously poked a certain book with his finger and he hummed in contentment as it dropped down the carpeted floors with a soft thud. He bent down very slowly and very quietly in front of the displaced book and carefully opened it with his long candle-like fingers. He had a most curious way of turning the pages. He sat on his hands and softly blew against the pages to flip it.

'A stranger', Natsuki thought angrily, 'in my own house! In my own sanctuary! The nerve of the rascal!' She may be dead, but this did not mean that she was no longer the master of the house. And with swift but heavy feet, she marched towards the unsuspecting infidel, and without warning she lifted him roughly by his shoulders. Her fingers sank against his cold, unscrupulous flesh and he groaned in pain and tried to shove her hand away, but Natsuki caught his hand and she impulsively bit his knuckles. He hardly had a second to yelp, for Natsuki dragged him towards the barred door as she strangled him savagely. He ruthlessly clawed on her belly in a feeble attempt to escape, and Natsuki raised him up and eyed him menacingly.

"What exactly are you doing in my house?", she asked with gritted teeth.

The stranger looked at her with bulged eyes and a bewildered smile. She loosened her grip on his neck and shouted: "Speak, fool!"

He coughed and spat out ghoulish blood before he fell on his knees with a soft giggle.

"Your house? _Your_ house?", he asked in between pained coughs and stutters.

Natsuki held her defensive stance. She had significantly weakened the intruder but she was in no position to be calm and she MOST certainly did not trust the phantom whose face was still hidden by the shadows of room.

He sat down in front of her with his arms behind his back to show that he meant no harm. Natsuki continued to be stiff and stern with him though, and he laughed politely.

"Madam, from what I recall, this is _my_ house and I was reading a book in _my_ house."

His voice was amiable and gay, and it somehow put Natsuki at ease. At least it was not a malicious spirit. But it was an intruder nonetheless and she scoffed at him in instinctive possessiveness.

"Very well then, we share an abode – of that, I am aware. And I," he paused and bowed lowly in front of her, "I am most sorry for having offended you, Madam. Do accept my humble apologies."

"So, you're the one who keeps messing around with our books! And Shizuru always thought it was me, me, me! Hah!"

"Ah, I've caused you much trouble, haven't I, Madam?"

"Well I wouldn't call it trouble, but yes, you have been a nuisance to us. Like a small rat. In fact that trap over there was set for you."

His eyes softened, and as if on cue, moonbeam traveled from the far end of the curtain to fall gently on his face. He was an ancient spirit – a very old one in fact. He wore the dark robes of the esteemed men of long ago matched with long, brick red hakama pants and with hair ala chonmage.

He sat up straight and closed his eyes in his shame. "If there is anything that I can do to make up for the trouble that I've caused, I'd be more than happy to restore my honor in whichever fashion you may ask of me."

Natsuki laughed.

"Oh Madam, I beg of you to not ridicule me."

"You may refrain from being so rigid. You need not do anything to 'restore your honor'. I don't think it was tarnished in any way at all."

He stood up and bowed slightly to Natsuki.

"My name is Hakayama, Genjuro Takogayashi. Servant of the shining prince and apparently – the mouse that's been pestering you ever since you put up that book shelf."

He walked towards the bookshelf and smiled at Natsuki.

"Reading – bad habit I can't seem to break. But can you blame me, Madam? In my days we had very few books, and they were all sold for quite a price. You'd have to sell your liver and your spouse just to get a copy."

Natsuki looked at him with an amused smile. He was a charming fellow, and he seemed to bore no ill motives against her. He only wanted to read and what harm could reading bring unto any of them? She shrugged her shoulders and sighed in relief.

"And let me tell you something, Madam. Your partner reads the most interesting things. A student of law, I presume?"

"Public Administration, actually."

"Blazes! women have grown stronger and stronger with each passing decade. Amazing."

"I don't believe I've introduced myself to you, sir."

"No, you have not, madam. But you don't have to."

"Evidently…especially since you know about my relationship with the other woman in this house, sir."

"Madam, do not take it against me, I've been living in this place before you even bought it."

"I understand. Even so, I don't want to waste my good breeding. My name is Kuga, Natsuki. Stop calling me 'madam'."

"Very well, Miss Kuga, you may call me Genjuro."

"Aha. Genjuro. And please, call me Natsuki."

"Summer princess."

"Don't SAY THAT!"

"Oh, but it's a very pretty name and I think it suits you quite well. You have a very pretty face, Natsuki. And may I say something that would put both of us at ease with one another?"

Natsuki raised an eyebrow and nodded in agreement.

"Not once did I peeve into your private moments."

Natsuki blushed in response. Normally she would've refrained from interacting with a stranger, let alone one who had caused her mild discomforts during the witching hours. But she needed company. Yes, she needed company. She could not tell how and why but her instinct were sharper, her mind was clearer, and her ability to perceive which was good from which was evil had grown disturbingly keener in her disposal of her mortal coil. Genjuro seemed to sparkle with yellow, inhuman luminance. She had read and heard a couple of times about auras and how they revealed a person's intentions. She scoffed at this issue and regarded it as 'hippie crap the came out crack filled cranks". But now she found it a hard-to-digest reality and all too much of a tragedy. She praised auras for their convenience and silently cursed the limits of the flesh. Had she been given this incredible, impenetrable sense of seeing the equally impenetrable and colorful reflection of a person's intentions, then she would not have been tricked into thinking that she would get a raise after refraining from working like everyone else – that meant avoiding slacking and dependency of the caffeine machine for nourishment of course.

She found it irresistible to share her death with her new companion. He listened to her intently; with constant silent nods of compliance. He interrupted her (in a most polite fashion) only when he found something unclear in her speech. And before the world had passed on to another day without leaving the dark of the night, Genjuro had already heard her tragedy. He had given her his condolences: "For you and for your beloved dead.", and she in turn, found comfort in his strangeness.

She took an intense delight in their conversations and Genjuro, in all his placidness and in his tender speech, also seemed to like to her company a lot. He mentioned to her that she was among the preferable lot of spirits. Natsuki found this to be quite odd. That meant more yureis populated the perimeter of their apartment. That also meant that there were unlikable menaces she should watch out for.

"You mean to say, Genjuro, that there are evil spirits around here? Wraiths?"

"Yes. Precisely." He snapped his neck and sat down on the floor with robes flowing dark and wide. "I wouldn't call them 'menaces' though. I don't consider them to be menacing. Not now – no, especially not now that, well, I can't possibly die any further. I can't be deader than dead. Is that even possible? Dear god, I hope not. Not really…fun to die, no?"

Natsuki shook her head and frowned.

"Your wound is," Genjuro grimaced and traced the red contours of Natsuki's injury on his own neck, "angry."

"I'm angrier."

"Don't be."

"I have every right to be. Why!!-"

"No. Don't. Listen to me, Natsuki."

Natsuki gnashed her teeth in annoyance, but Genjuro continued:

"Bear no hatred within your chest and leave thy hate along with thy mortal breath. Hatred can only bring further damnation unto the dead. No, Natsuki, you do not want to become like them. They never wanted to become what they are now."

"Who exactly are you talking about?"

"The other lot. Fancy turning into the creatures that you've always feared in your dreams. I have been told long ago, by a traveler not from our own ancient land, that nightmares are merely reflections of our own demons. That the beasts that devour us in those dreams that we dare not dream are merely, well, us haunting our own selves. Because we craft our own fears out of our dislikes and, Natsuki, listen, oh, Natsuki please don't walk away, please, you must hear this—"

"I am not yet ready to forgive, Genjuro." She growled. "And I most certainly am in no mood for some messianic, self-righteous lecture! I've been dead for almost a week and I can't get out of this fucking place. I swear, my god, I'm on the verge of insanity! I-"

"Exactly. Exactly. And we're all adamant in shipping ourselves towards the pearly gates, aren't we?" He said with a laugh. Natsuki in front of the open door of her bedroom and looked on at Genjuro with much curiosity.

"Because death isn't really a cure for insanity, Natsuki. It too, can shape the thinking of a man with its impossibilities and sudden changes. A sort of 'culture shock'. Trust me, it will wear off. You're done with the first part, you've already accepted the fact that you are dead, ungratefully dead though. But the hate, all that hate that swells within your chaste breast - let it flee. Never let it blossom for you are merely its vessel, only its tool. Day by day, as a tree consumes the nutrients of the soil it stands on, so shall your spite consume you."

Natsuki paused in a few moments of silent reflection before bursting out into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

"Did you fish that out from some Sunday morning cartoon? It was all too touching, really."

Genjuro made an irked expression before warning Natsuki that he only wished her well. He wanted to bid her farewell for the night, as she had ungallantly offended him. But Natsuki had quickly turned the tables and before he could even take his leave, he found himself talking about Edo-era sushi and good luck charms.

"I've heard stories about you, Genjuro.", Natsuki told her in a modest voice. He had already forgotten the caliber of her fury and his aversion to her previous display of false pride when he saw her delicate smile brighten with moonlight. He felt at ease again and he too sensed to she was no longer raging. The night was passing them by with each sparkle of starlight.

"I never knew I was that famous!

"The boy that lives on the second floor – you know him, right? Well, he sees you playing around with his goldfish and reading their newspapers every night. And the old landlady, Mrs. Ochoka, she kept telling me about you. She's seen you, I think, standing in front of the tree outside. She says: 'A good spirit walks around in this place, Miss Kuga. Be sure to feed him milk before you sleep'."

"Is that right?," Genjuro laughed, "But you never left me with a bowl of fresh milk."

"No, no I never did," Natsuki replied apologetically, "I'm sorry. I wasn't much of a believer."

"Oh, posh! Mrs. Ochoka…Yes, I think I bumped into her a few good times. She keeps fresh fruits for me by her window. I don't eat them though."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't! And that boy! Yes, he tried to talk to me once. He asked me in his kind little voice if I was a Tengu. I told him no, I wasn't, but I thought he had very lovely pets and that he was very bright young boy. His father doesn't even read the papers, that old bean! He just brings the darn thing into his own and sets them on fire every winter. A waste of papers and words, Natsuki!"

"Genjuro, are you stuck here? In this apartment?"

Genjuro was a bit taken back by the abrupt change in topic. Nevertheless, he casually replied:

"Yes. Whenever I try to cross the road from the tree in our backyard, a thick mist falls upon the place and I am left with no other choice but to hobble back towards the tree."

"Why?"

"I was killed there, Natsuki. I fell lifeless, embraced by the majestic roots of that tree. It is the lone witness to my death and I've an attachment to it. And this apartment!" He stood up and spread his arms wide open, "This apartment was built on the remains of the burnt temple of Amaterasu. I took shelter there for about six weeks until my murderers found me. I'm also quite attached to this place. It was my home. My house – and it still is, although I've come to accept the fact that I must share it with you younger generations."

"Why, Genjuro? Why did you die?"

"I was running an errand for my lord. I came with my brother. We were to deliver an urgent message to Lord Insei regarding a plot against him by his arch rival. But assassins brought my horse down with a poisoned arrow and I was forced to carry my brother and our belongings here. It became our home for some time. I tended our wounds with the herbs that grew around this place. That tree was most useful to us. It bore us fruit and we drank the cool rain water that it held generously in the palm of its leaves. But they found me. Infidels, all of them."

He stopped and stared down at his feet.

"You don't have to continue if you don't want to, Genjuro."

"No, no. I actually want to. It's very therapeutic!", he declared with a laugh as he sat down beside her. "They separated me and my brothe. His name was Watanabe. A darling little boy he was. He had the soft looks of the mighty mountains chastised by virgin winter snow. Anyway, they did—" He stood up again and quickly opened his robes.

Natsuki gave out a timid yelp as she covered her eyes with her crossed arms.

"THIS. Don't be silly. You won't even see a flutter of curled hair, I assure you. Look.

Natsuki did so with much reluctance. She regretfully opened her eyes to the sound of Genjuro's gentle laughter. True to his word, Natsuki saw no trace of curled hair, nor did she catch sight of any portion of the other sex's flesh. In truth, she saw nothing at all; save for torn bits of skin paled to perfection by eons of dripping blood, and lacerations curved with finesse by none other than Samurai blades. Genjuro had been dismembered by his murderers. They slit him from his crotch up to his chest. Only the robes held him together in one piece for all the muscles that gathered him together into a proper, singular, human form had been separated by what seemed to be a powerful upper thrust. Natsuki turned away from the sight. She heard Genjuro pull himself – or his robes – together in one piece. Satisfied that he was now fully clothed, she sat up straight and turned to look at him again. He had a sad smile on his face.

"I hope they were quick on my brother. He was but a child."

"I'm sure they were."

"Thank you. That's very comforting of you."

"But why are you stuck in this…err…what do those psychos call it? Oh – dimension."

"I've an attachment to this place. I can't leave it. My memories of this place are…well, dear to me in a sick sort of way."

"Memories."

"Yes, I've concluded that memories or our deepest sentiments or sentimental values about or for particular places attach us to them completely, so this is where we go to in our death."

"So this is our sort of…purgatory?"

"I – I can't really say! I've ever been away from here. Never really been to the other side. _**Yet.**_", He said with a laugh.

"This is life after death. Dear Lord. It's boring. And I always thought…"

"What?", he asked with a curious look. Natsuki shook her head and chuckled meekly.

"You know how the euphemism goes: he's gone off to a better place. Big, fat, juicy lie afterall."

"Well, still the same world. Save for the fact that you can't die."

"And I thought death would free us."

"No. It's still the same as living, like I said. There are boundaries and limitations. We're souls, Natsuki, not gods. If we were all free to walk about the land of the living and go and do whatever we please, then it would practically be hell on earth. And so we remain governed by a set of rules, we have specific territories wherein we reign sovereign. Some force prevents anarchy from breaking lose even in death."

Silence. Tick-tock. And then: "Genjuro, how long have you been here?"

"I haven't the slightest idea!", he replied humorously. Natsuki raised an eye brow at him in disbelief.

"I've tried counting the days, the months, even just the years, but alas. I lost track of it all."

"You got tired of counting."

"No. Not really. It's just that – how do I explain this? After a while, I seemed to have forgotten the movement of time, how to count it, how to measure it by the hours. I lost track without even knowing it. Now that you mentioned it! –" He stood up and pondered on the length of his stay.

"You can't be serious?"

"It's all too bizarre. Time loses track of us. We're free from time."

"Time stopped for us?"

"I suppose you can say that. But it's more like time doesn't exist in our space."

The sky was slowly becoming a brackish blue sputtered with brick red clouds. The faint crow of roosters could be heard from the distant neighborhood.

"I'm not losing track of it."

"Oh trust me, Natsuki," Genjuro said as he walked towards the door. It was already five thirty in the morning, and he slept with the rise of the sun. "you will eventually. You will without even noticing it. Time will cease to exist for you. It already has."

Genjuro began to fade with the buzzing of the alarm clock and the coming of the faint morning light.

"Wait!", Natsuki called out in a panicked tone.

"Yes?", he asked with a voice merely a whisper.

"Don't leave me. Not yet!"

"I'll come back during the night. During these hours I seem to be needed by the tree. This is the hour of my death, you see. In the night, I'm free to roam around the apartment grounds, but for now I must retire to my tree. Good day, Natsuki. Be well."

"Wait! Genjuro! I don't want to be alone."

"Look around.", his figured had vanished completely and only his raspy voice lingered in the warm air. "there are others. Remember, Natsuki, never lose your temper lest you become one of the damned." With that he was gone.

Natsuki, heeding his advice, looked out into the world not as a human, but as a soul. She saw with new eyes, as if it was her first time to see the world, the city slowly awakening to cock crows and heard, for the first time with her spirit ears, the sound of the distant traffic. She saw things she could not see before when her senses were restricted and limited to and by the senses of the flesh: the old man brooding, jawless in the middle of the street, the Madonna of the suburbs; lonely in her suspension from the ground, the American soldier who guarded his post, unaware of his own passing, and Genjuro, perched beneath the tree in their backyard, waving at her from below. And all the while the living, unaware that the dead walked among them, stepped out from their houses, barred their doors and welcomed another yesterday with the scent of coffee intermixed with burning gasoline. They arose from the ground, unseen, unheard; some were pleading for prayers, others spiteful in envy, others unwary of their own demise. But it all went on as if no horror arose from the ashes of the night with the living lost to their living and the dead thirsty for their lives. For the morning and the world were unaware that in its awake the living, the damned, and the grateful dead were one in their rise. And Natsuki beheld all of this, suddenly she felt very lost in this miasma of irony, her zest for life once again resurfacing, fell unto her knees before the waking world and silently, she wept.

* * *

Reviews pleash.


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